


Mochas and Mistakes

by Ariaofthewinds



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: AU, Eorzea Cafe is owned and operated by the Scions, Fluff, Here we are I guess, Hydaelyn is your grandmother, I didn't sign up for this, Light Angst, Mentions of Scions, Mentions of other FFXIV characters, Modern AU, Other, POV Second Person, coffee shop AU, navel gazing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 10:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17848115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariaofthewinds/pseuds/Ariaofthewinds
Summary: You're just trying to run the coffee shop your grandmother left you. Solus has a coffee empire to maintain and expand.Life goes on.





	Mochas and Mistakes

There's nothing glamorous about working in a coffee shop. You have to scrub each morning before customers come in and again after they go, and while you're scrubbing you've got the biscuits and the crepes in the oven baking. The first round of coffee percolates and outside the birds consider waking up. Only consider it, mind you, for the sun's not up and most of humanity isn't either. The first shift drips in, Thancred with eyes traumatized by the early arousal and Y'shtola with her books. The latter has a practical soon, and who knows what the former has to do. Something, you know, but what it is remains beyond your ken. Lyse and Papalymo won't be in until the afternoon, around the time you take your daily nap and can entrust the cafe to Papalymo's measured hands. He offsets Lyse's enthusiasm, and when you wake up at four, the cafe is mostly in one piece, if overly beset by college students desperately trying to study for some test or project. 

Your grandmother left you the cafe when she passed. It belonged to her grandmother before that, and it just felt right for you to take it. Your sister Minfilia manages the other cafe your grandmother ran on the other side of the city, and you meet up on Friday afternoons to talk about how the shops are doing. Fine, but not stellar, well enough to afford a staff and to keep yourself afloat. One day, you might have to sell it. One day, when Eorzea cannot compete with Garlemond Coffee Works, which may be sooner rather than later or may be later rather than sooner. You aren't the best judge of time outside of baking. It's an impermanent thing, time is, and you lose too many minutes to little things like making a proper biscuit or stirring the latte just right. 

It's those little personal touches that bring men like Raubahn and women like Merlwyb to your door. Their drinks may take a hare longer, may be a nib pricier, but they always walk with a smile on their face and a load off their shoulders. That's what the Eorzea Cafe does; it lightens the load, spreads a bit of light so that others may rest easier. People come from all over for a cup and a moment, to sit at one of your low tables or curl up on one of your sofas and let the world slink by, to forget their troubles. Perhaps one day, you will forget your own. 

Such a day is far off. For now you must worry about the lease and the coffee beans, about the flour and the eggs and whether or not you've burned the breakfast sandwiches. Mundane matters, but in the end, most problems are mundane. 

Most, but not all. 

The man comes by at approximately ten thirty each morning. The slow time, you affectionately call it. Too late for the breakfast rush, too early for the lunch rush. Only the college students haunt your hall, and it is the time you normally give Thancred his break. Y'shtola is gone, off to a class, and alone you man the counter, humming to yourself. 

He reminds you of grand things. Grander things, the memories of dreams of your youth. You say this, but in the grand scheme of things, you are not old. Not that old, at least, though the man is at least ten years your senior judging by the skunk stripe in his hair. He reminds you of the crunch of velvet drapes and the harsh, circular lights of follow spots. of dreams long buried in the earth. Not that you mind that; there is a season for everything, your grandmother said, and the season for the stage has long passed. 

The season for this man has not. He wears silks and gloves, well tailored gloves and flowing scarves. His eyes are a molten gold and you know danger. You know of his type, and so you don't let Thancred serve the visitor. Thancred has suffered enough at their hands, and you know yourself well enough that the guest cannot hurt you much. You think; such things are hard to tell. 

He likes sweets, this Solus does. A fine caramel mocha, stirred to precision and dusted with ground chocolate. You think he must come here because your cafe is one of the few to offer it; you like your sweets just as much as the customer does. You just won't admit it aloud. The thicker curve of your hip does more than enough talking for you, just as your glasses bespeak your hours reading. He leans into you as he orders.

Not too far, of course. If he leans in too close, he might lose some of himself, and you both know that he would never allow such a thing. The point is to seduce you and obtain your cafe, not to lose his own heart. Such an occurrence would be untenable, unforgivable for him, and you understand this. It's why he will never get your cafe, but you don't tell him that. You enjoy his presence far too much to expose your hand in such a way. His smiles, his low voice as he purrs his way across the cafe... it is all a magnificent show, one you are sure the college students appreciate. 

Your grandmother would be disappointed in you, for playing with fire. But that is okay; your grandmother is long in her grave and cannot object to a very pretty, very ruthless man coming in on an almost daily basis to seduce you out of hearth, home, and cafe. You would write a play about it, but that seems like it would encourage Solus in the wrong direction. So you settle in and take his order with a pleasant smile, the one you learned when you were in high school and playing ingenues. 

He must suspect something, or perhaps he doesn't. No. On the days that you do not perform your part to perfection, he chases you. Not literally, of course. Solus would never chase anyone down. That's what his bodyguards are for. But his eyes narrow and his nostrils flare, and his hands animate more viciously, stabbing the air with an abnormal zeal. It is on those days that you sit back on your heels and tap away at the cash register. Those days make it easy to tuck your heart away deep in your breast, to ignore the offers of millions and comfort and a chance to try standing on the stage. 

You know yourself better than Solus does. That is through no fault of the man; you know he's hired investigators to find your secrets, followed you and asked questions himself. But anything you might have been is long gone, and what remains is only what you are: a solitary cafe owner who wakes before the birds and waits for a man to cross the threshold every day, a man determined to wrench your world from beneath your feet and add it to his empire. 

You're grateful that Minfilia isn't accosted so; her Mothercrystal Cafe isn't nearly located so well. She might have killed Solus or gotten Arbert to do it. The bouncer for the local bar was always more than happy to accost people for Minfilia. You don't have such a privilege, though perhaps if you actually told one of your employees about Solus they would offer to do it for you. Maybe even for free. But that would also mean that Solus would switch tactics, and there really was truth in the phase "Better the enemy you know." 

Better indeed that Solus comes in every morning with his theatrics, with his hand over his heart and his insincere smile upon his face, that you might know how to smile back and just simply, plainly ask for his order. The witty repartee changes from day to day; Solus cannot bear to be the exact same, only the same goal, and you relish the change. Just what will he say this time? Will you be my dear or my friend or most esteemed? When the visits first began, you were a most esteemed, but over the weeks of his visits you have become a dear, and you wonder if you will become anything more as he orders his overly sweet mocha.

He follows you with his eyes as you pour and stir, talking. His voice is low and smooth, audible only to you. The college students wonder about it; you hear them talking about your finely dressed visitor, his streams of compliments and his constant attendance. They wonder about the relationship far more than you do, but they do not understand. To let this go any further would kill Solus's interest. He is the sort of man who grows bored with what he has and moves on. If you give in, you will lose not only your home but your heart. Untenable, simply untenable. 

So even if the weight of his golden eyes upon your back makes your heart shudder and your fingers weak, even if the trail of words in your ear leads you to forgetting yourself, you cannot give in. You make his mocha and turn and smile at him. 

"Your mocha, sir," you say, the same thing every day. The stability of the end of the interchange, the unspoken contract between buyer and seller fulfilled. Solas takes it, always brushing his gloved fingers over your own. They're freezing, soft, dead but not dead for he always, always manages to caress your fingers in this exchange and smile at you from beneath his heavy brow. As though you ought to be blushing or smiling or pleased that someone like Solus zos Galvus is touching you. 

It would be a lie to say you are not pleased. But to be so open to Solus would invite.... something. Something you aren't ready to deal with yet. This is fine. You think he knows, for his grin widens and his eyes crinkle in pleasure. A joke to him perhaps, to seduce one of the last independent coffee shops in the city, to elevate the owner to some high stakes beyond her ken, and then smack her down. 

Oh, you know this game. You know it all too well, and so you pull your hands free steadily. Not too fast, not too slow, with no smile or expression on your face besides kindness. "Have a good day," you say.

He bows to you. Always, he bows to you, his hand over his heart, his gaze never leaving your own. It pins you in place, the smile as sickeningly sweet as Solus's mocha, the eyes burning for they know things you do not. If he were any other man, you might have let this go farther. 

But you can't. Solus bows and grins and speaks one last time, "You as well, my dear," and then he is off in a swirl of coat tails and dreams and nightmares. You watch him go, your hands neatly folded in front of you. One day, the stalemate will break and one of you will lose or move on or the world will end. That day is not today. The bell rings behind him and the college students erupt into chatters. Your stomach flips over in your belly, once, twice, thrice, and you take a breath. Your shaking hands steady as you push all thought of Solus from your mind, as you pick up a soiled pitcher to clean. 

There is work to be done, if you are to stay out of Solus's clutches. You'd best get to it.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't honestly know where this came from. I just wanted something light and ridiculous and here we are. The coffee shop AU. I don't know how far this will go, but I'm going to entertain it for a while. Thanks for reading!


End file.
